


Game On

by illwick



Series: Unwind [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bondage, Bottom!Sherlock, Dom!John, Edgeplay, Face-Fucking, Facials, Kink Negotiation, Light BDSM, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Prostate Massage, Safe Sane and Consensual, Submission, Under-negotiated Kink, sub!Sherlock, top!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-15 22:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10558902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwick/pseuds/illwick
Summary: When a case ends badly, John attempts to help Sherlock relax. What better way than with a few rounds of Cluedo?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Despite the whimsical title, this fic contains more angst than most of my pornier work. A word of disclaimer: this piece contains a brief description of a panic attack brought on by under-negotiated aftercare practices.

It wasn't anyone's fault. Not really. On any case, in any situation, there are always thousands upon thousands of variables, each with a diverse impact on the ultimate outcome.

Three minutes later, the boy would have died.

Three minutes sooner, though, and perhaps his leg could have been saved.

But it's the former that John focuses on as he attempts to talk Sherlock down in the cramped debriefing room at the Yard. They're both exhausted, Sherlock is filthy (covered from head to toe in soot from the warehouse fire), and John is near delirious from lack of sleep, but Sherlock is showing no signs of slowing down. He's pacing, picking at the frayed edges of a tear running through the side panel of his Belstaff, shaking his head and muttering to himself.

"Stupid, stupid _stupid!_ How could I have been so blind? Of _course_ it was the stepfather, his cufflinks _alone...."_

"Sherlock, stop."

Sherlock glances up briefly, then huffs in John's general direction and turns back to pacing, hands flying up to tangle in his hair, pulling plaintively at the strands.

"Lazy, stupid, blind, blind, _blind..."_

"SHERLOCK." John's Captain Voice seems to do the trick. Sherlock stops in his tracks and his hands fall helplessly to his sides. But he doesn't raise his head, and he keeps his back to John.

Just then, Greg makes an appearance, bustling through the door of the debriefing room, all business.

"Just heard back from the doctors, more good news. They'll be able to save the leg from the knee up--so it's only a partial amputation. He'll have a tough road ahead, with a prosthetic and physical therapy, but he'll make a full recovery."

John smiles in Greg's direction. "That's excellent news. Sherlock, a partial amputation is much easier to recover from than a total one. And Charlie's only ten--kids are resilient. He'll be fine."

"He lost a _leg,"_ Sherlock spits back, his voice full of venom.

John is placating. "He would have lost his _life_ if not for you. Three minutes later, and the warehouse would have collapsed on him. This is the best possible outcome."

Sherlock turns on him, face twisted in fury. "No, John, the _best possible outcome_ would have been that I put the pieces together _hours_ ago, as soon as I was presented with the evidence. Then he never would have been on the scaffolding in that warehouse in the first place, so it never would have collapsed in that fire, and he'd be whole and safe and free of _all_ of this, but instead he's...he's..."

"He's alive and he'll be fine. You did good, Sherlock."

" _'Well,'_ John. I did _'well.'_ At least do me the decency of using proper grammar when you're bullshitting me."

"Sherlock--" Greg barely gets the word out before Sherlock rounds and tears into him.

"Oh, don't you start blowing smoke up my arse, too. Pathetic, the both of you, treating me like some _child."_

Greg's eyebrows are raised so high they seem to have receded into his hairline. He raises his hands in surrender.

"Alright then. John, can I have a word outside, please."

John hazards a glance at Sherlock, who is still staring daggers at him. "Sure."

They step outside the debriefing room, and Greg gives his head a slow shake. "Jesus, is he alright?"

John sighs. "He will be. He's just...frustrated. The case was difficult. And when we got to the warehouse, we split up to try and find Charlie. I was around back when it happened. Sherlock was the one who found him--he saw him as the scaffolding collapsed. I think he thought...the worst. He's pretty shaken up."

Greg nods. "Listen, go on and take him home. I'll come by and take your official statements myself tomorrow. There's no reason to keep the two of you around here at this hour, especially with Sherlock in that state."

"Cheers, Greg."

"Can I come by first thing in the morning? 9-ish?"

John pauses. "Um...let's see. It's 3am now. Could you do the afternoon? Post-lunch? I just...I need time to get him calmed down, otherwise his statement's just going to be a useless barrage of insults, you know that."

"Sure," Greg smiles. "I'll text you after lunch."

John tries to smile back, but he's pretty sure it just comes off as a tight-lipped grimace, which is about all he can manage at this point.

"Good luck with...all of that," Greg gestures in the general direction of the debriefing room, then turns on this heel and makes his way down the hall.

John lets go of a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. Christ, what a day. He wants nothing more than to just stagger back to Baker Street and collapse into bed and sleep until he can't sleep anymore.

But Sherlock needs him. And he needs Sherlock, too. He knows this, now--he's finally come to recognize this feeling, this tension between them. And he's finally learning how to deal with it.

He pops his head back into the interrogation room. Sherlock is sitting on the table, shoulders hunched forward and full of tension, skulking dangerously.

"Alright, let's go. Greg's going to take our statements tomorrow."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, but he doesn't argue. He stands up and storms out of the Yard, leaving a smattering of terrified officers in his wake. John trots apologetically behind.

The taxi ride is silent and tense. Sherlock is jiggling his left leg and clenching his fists--telltale signs that he's wound up. John closes his eyes and wills the taxi to go faster.

When they finally arrive back at Baker Street, Sherlock pauses on the stoop as John opens the front door and starts making his way up the stairs. John turns back in anticipation. "You coming?"

"I, um. In a minute. I just need..." He gestures vaguely towards the pocket of his Belstaff.

John descends the stairs and joins Sherlock outside.

"You smoking?"

Sherlock shrugs. "Was going to have one. I'm a bit..." he holds up his left hand, which is shaking slightly, and makes a vague, non-committal gesture.

John takes his hand. "I know. I was thinking we could go upstairs and _unwind. "_

At the sound of that word, Sherlock finally meets his eyes.

It's the code word they use for what they do together after particularly challenging cases--the times when Sherlock needs John to help him come down from the high of the case and relax. They explore with power dynamics, John taking on the role of the dominant partner and Sherlock submitting to him eagerly, allowing John to take him apart and calm him down and then press him slowly, carefully back together. It's a beautiful, delicate, intoxicating dance--one they've just started to learn the steps to.

Suddenly, Sherlock presses his lips together and shakes his head, breaking the eye contact and pulling his hand away. Something inside John lurches, and he momentarily feels like he's falling.

"Not tonight. I couldn't possibly ask you to... after everything. After all of today. I couldn't ask you to do that for me tonight. You must be tired. And I've been wretched."

The vague something inside of John twists, melancholy and helpless. How could it be, after all the careful communication they've been trying to have, that Sherlock could still be so utterly misinformed about what it is that they're truly doing?

He steels his resolve, and takes Sherlock's hand again.

"Do you really believe that?" John asks him.

"Believe what?" Sherlock looks confused.

"That what we're doing when we... _unwind..._ that I'm only doing that for you? Is that what you think?"

Sherlock shrugs. He's still not meeting John's eye.

"Sherlock, look at me."

Sherlock heaves a wavering sigh, but complies. Jade-green eyes lock into John's, and John gives him his most reassuring smile.

"Sherlock, what we do when we unwind... it's for me, too. Of course, I'm happy to do it because it makes you feel good, _of course_ I want you to feel good. But God, Sherlock, it makes me feel good, too. Sometimes, after cases like the one today, all I want is control. I want to feel like... something in my life is going the way I want it to. Like I have some say in what's happening. Like I can make something _good_ happen, if I only know the right way to do it."

Sherlock blinks at him.

"When you let me have you like you do when we're unwinding, God, Sherlock, I feel unstoppable. It's a high like nothing else I've ever experienced. And I'm sorry if I never made that clear to you before. It's not just about you when we do that, Sherlock. It's for me, too. It's about the place it takes us to together. Do you understand?"

Slowly, Sherlock nods.

"Alright. So that being said... will you come upstairs and unwind with me?"

Sherlock offers him a tight smile, slightly bashful--almost demure. "Yes, John."

John breaks into a grin, a warmth filling him that has nothing to do with the arousal that's been pooling in his stomach since they got in the cab.

"Good. Let's go upstairs."

Sherlock takes the stairs two at a time, John trailing dotingly behind him. As soon as they walk through the front door, John's demeanor changes entirely. He straightens his shoulders and steels his eyes. He closes the door behind him and turns to where Sherlock is standing in the center of the sitting room, eyeing him expectantly.

"Strip. Leave everything, including your coat, on the floor." It all reeks of smoke and John wants to minimize the exposure to the rest of the flat, but there was no need to justify his orders to Sherlock when they were doing this.

Sherlock scrambles to comply. In no time, he's naked, his cock already beginning to swell with interest. John's own twitches within the confines of his trousers as he eyes Sherlock up and down.

"Alright. The usual: You have seven minutes to get yourself cleaned up in the shower. Meet me in the bedroom. Don't touch your cock."

"Yes, John," Sherlock murmurs, eyes already beginning to glaze over, and he makes his way down the hall. John doesn't move until he hears the telltale sign of the water pipes rattling to life.

He springs into action. Seven minutes wasn't really a lot of time to get everything ready.

First, he hastens to the kitchen to find a garbage bag, then strips down and thrusts his smoke-infused clothes into it. Next, he returns to the sitting room and crams all of Sherlock's smokey clothes in as well, then he sets it out on the landing--hopefully that would minimize the smell in the flat until they could take it all to the dry cleaner tomorrow. 

Logistical issues taken care of-- _what next?_

John has a brief moment of panic. Normally he had no trouble taking over control in these situations--slipping into the role of the dominant partner had come shockingly naturally to him, and he found he had fairly good intuition for what Sherlock would like. That said, he'd also taken care to do extensive research online, some of which had been quite enlightening.

Most of it was simple stuff--general suggestions about how the dominant partner should behave during a sexual scenario in which power dynamics were being explored, lists of things submissive partners may like (on which Sherlock seemed to have ticked almost every box), information on setting boundaries and limits and the proper time to have those discussions.

More recently, he'd begun visiting message boards. He never posted (he had no interest in getting involved in the flame wars he'd seen play out on some of them over various topics), but he was a regular silent observer on several of the tamer sites (he'd quickly discovered that on a sliding scale, the things he and Sherlock did were considered relatively _tame_ within the BDSM community). Thinking back, there was one chain with suggestions of games to play, and he frantically wracks his brain trying to remember.

There'd been one, he recalled, that seemed right up his and Sherlock's alley. It involved bondage (one of Sherlock's absolute favorites) and edging, which John had come to discover he had a particular knack for. Bringing Sherlock to the brink of ecstasy over and over again while denying him release...it sent John on a heady power high _every damn time._ And luckily, it required a bare minimum of equipment.

Sensing his time was running short, he hustles over to the cabinet beneath the bookshelf and begins to frantically claw through their haphazard collection of board games. _Operation_ \- no. _Backgammon_ \- no. He curses quietly as he rummages around, overturning Monopoly and chess in the process. Finally, his hands land on a worn brown box in the back corner: _A Beginner's Guide to Dungeons and Dragons._

"Bingo," he murmurs under his breath. Tearing the lid off the box, he finds the 20-sided die and holds it aloft, his prize finally in hand. He makes to stand, but then realizes that rolling a 20-sided die on a mattress would be an exercise in futility, so he grabs the first box his hand lands on - _Cluedo_ \- and tugs it open, retrieving the gameboard inside. He makes one final detour to the kitchen, where he fills a glass with water and, as an afterthought, pops in a straw. Satisfied, he makes his way to the bedroom.

He hears the water in the bathroom shut off, but he knows he still has time while Sherlock dries himself off. He hastily deposits the glass of water, gameboard, and the die on the bedside table, then makes his way to the closet, where he grabs two of Sherlock's thicker leather belts. He notices they now hang on a peg off to the side on their own--clearly more designated for use during their sessions of _unwinding_ than for any purpose of fashion. The thought makes him smirk.

He tosses the belts on the bedside table as well, then strips off the duvet and divests the bed of all of the pillows except one. He surveys the scene and nods to himself. The stage is set.

Just in time, Sherlock emerges from the bathroom. As John ordered, he's nude, his hair wild but the curves of his shoulders are soft, a stark contrast to his rigid posture at the Yard. Sherlock's expression is blank, his face open and relaxed.

John smiles and walks up to him, then places his hands on his waist.

"You look gorgeous, Sherlock. You clean up so well. Did you get all the soot off of yourself?"

"I... I think so."

"Alright. I better inspect you before we start." With that, he kisses Sherlock, slow and deep, then pulls away to trail his lips down Sherlock's neck to his collarbone, then he deliberately steps away.

Feigning disinterest, he runs his hands down Sherlock's arms and legs, then up his torso to cup his chin, turning his head from side to side, as if inspecting behind his ears for any lingering signs of ash.

"Hmm." He makes a non-committal sound, then turns Sherlock around. He repeats the process, running his hands over his back (taking the time to notice the way Sherlock shivers as John's fingers play across the sensitive scar tissue there), then down to his arse. He parts Sherlock's cheeks for a quick look, but he doesn't touch. He simply waits until Sherlock issues an embarrassed whimper, reveling in the indecent exposure, before he releases him and turns Sherlock back around to give him another kiss.

"You did a beautiful job, getting yourself clean for me. Are you going to be good for me tonight?"

"Yes, John."

"Good." John smiles warmly at him, and Sherlock smiles blearily back. He's already clearly checked out.

"So tonight, we're going to play a game. I'll make the rules very clear, but if you have any questions, you can ask me, alright? You don't need to guess. Understood?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Lie down in the center of the bed, face up. I'm going to use these on you." He holds up the belts. Sherlock's eyes light up in anticipation, and he scrambles to assume the position, resting his head on the single pillow and holding his hands up above his head, stretching outwards towards the opposing bed posts.

"Lovely. So clever, so good for me. Let's get you tied up." John leans in and wraps the first of the belts around Sherlock's left wrist, then fastens it securely to the corresponding bedpost. He repeats the process on the other side. Once finished, he squeezes Sherlock's hands one at a time, and Sherlock squeezes them back--it's their agreed-upon signal that blood flow is normal, and Sherlock is ready to proceed. 

John smiles down at him. "Very nice indeed. Now," he picks up the Cluedo board and the 20-sided die, and brings them into Sherlock's field of vision. Confusion flickers across Sherlock's face.

"We're... playing an actual game?" There's an edge of sass in his voice. It's the closest to backtalk John can remember hearing from Sherlock during one of their sessions, and he narrows his eyes at Sherlock in warning. Sherlock averts his gaze and murmurs a faint "sorry" under his breath.

"Yes, Sherlock, we're playing a game. Do you trust me?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. So when I say it's a game I think you'll like, you believe me?"

"Yes, John. Sorry, John." Sherlock's voice is barely a whisper.

"Alright. Now that we've cleared that up, here are the rules. They're fairly simple. We take turns rolling this 20-sided die. Since you're _indisposed,_ I'll be doing the rolling on your behalf. Understood?"

"Yes, John."

"Good. Each roll of the die corresponds with a number of strokes. We'll alternate back and forth. But here's the catch, Sherlock: _You are not to come until I say so."_

At hearing those words, a shiver grips the entirety of Sherlock's body, and he moans wantonly. His cock has long since reached full mast, and he parts his legs provocatively under the heat of John's gaze.

"Sherlock, do you understand me when I say that you're not to come until I tell you to?"

"Yes, John."

"Okay. Because that part is very important. This isn't going to be like the last time you came without permission and I let you off with only a little overstimulation as punishment." (Sherlock lets out an audible scoff at this; John had forced three orgasms out of him with a vibrator as punishment, reducing Sherlock to a begging, sobbing mess.) "If you come before I say so, all of this stops. We just end it. I don't come, you don't come again, this whole session stops and we're done. I go to bed unsatisfied and very disappointed in you. Understood?"

Sherlock nods somberly.

"Alright. Last rule: If at any time you're unable to vocally tell me to stop, but need to, I want you to snap your fingers. Try that for me right now."

Sherlock does.

"Lovely. Let's begin."

John walks to the end of the bed and places the gameboard and die upon it. Next, he spread Sherlock's legs even further, and crawls up to kneel between them. Sherlock whimpers.

For just a moment, John lets himself pause and appreciate the scene before him. Sherlock tied up, spread and ready for him, is a sight of which he believes could never grow tired. Every time they do this, there is a transcendent moment in which John feels so utterly _blessed_ to have the _privilege_ of having Sherlock like this, it takes his breath away. And as he kneels on the bed on this night, he lets that feeling of gratitude wash over him, and he takes a moment to give thanks to whatever deity may exist that they were brought together. That somehow, through all of this, they found each other. A perfect match.

Finally, he's ready to move on.

"My turn first," he says, and rolls the die. "Seven."

Without fanfare, he crawls up Sherlock's body until his thighs are bracketing Sherlock's chest. Placing one hand on the headboard to steady himself, he puts the other around his cock and gently guides it to Sherlock's mouth. Without prompting, Sherlock opens wide, allowing John access to thrust inside--which he does, seven times, slow and deep, cradling Sherlock's head with his free hand as he does so.

Sherlock's mouth is wet and unimaginably warm, and John moans at the feeling of his cock sliding effortlessly down his throat. Beneath him, Sherlock is pliant, his eyes wide but his jaw lax and his tongue accommodating. It takes a decent amount of willpower to pull out after only seven strokes, but he does. Sherlock is left gasping, more out of surprise and arousal than any impact on his actual airflow.

John crawls back down his body and resumes his position between Sherlock's legs. 

"Your turn," he says unceremoniously. He rolls the die again. "Sixteen. Lucky boy."

And with that, he bends and swallows Sherlock to the root.

Sherlock wails. John casts his eyes up to see Sherlock pulling frantically against the restraints, his eyes wild and mouth gaping. But John doesn't relent. After the eighth stroke, Sherlock lets his head fall back, and his wails turn to soft moans. He's stopped struggling against the restraints, but his abs are tight and shuddering under John's hands as he pumps his mouth for the last eight strokes. As soon as he finishes, he pulls away with a soft _pop._ Sherlock's cock falls back to his abdomen with an obscene slap.

As he pulls himself into a sitting position, John notices that Sherlock his still shaking, and his eyes are screwed shut.

"Hey. Hey," he reaches out and strokes up Sherlock's side. "You okay?"

Sherlock lets out a shuddering breath. "I...pause. Pause, please."

"Okay." John immediately sits up and pulls away, ceasing all touch. "Do you need me to untie you?"

Sherlock shakes his head slowly. "No. This is just a pause."

"Okay. Let me know if you want to stop."

John continues to sit quietly, and he watches as the shaking subsides, then Sherlock heaves a slow, deep breath and stills. Finally, Sherlock opens his eyes and breaks the silence.

"Your turn now."

"Are you sure you want to keep going? We can change gears, do something else."

"No, I'm ready. It just took me by surprise. But I understand the game. I understand the rules. I want to play. Let's play." His eyes to meet John's. They're still hazy with arousal, but there's a determined resolve in them that wasn't there before.

John quirks a smile at him. "Alright. My turn." He rolls the die. "Eleven."

He climbs into position. This time, Sherlock knows what's coming, and he lifts his head to allow John to cradle him as he feeds his cock between his lips. John presses in slow and deep, pausing slightly as he bottoms out each time. Sherlock opens his throat to receive him.

John issues a long, low groan. Christ, this is _good._ But he's suddenly forced to pause and reflect on the advice from the original poster on the message board: _Let it be a slow burn._ He's going too fast. Hell, he already almost pushed Sherlock too far once. Strokes ten and eleven are shallower and quicker, and he pulls out immediately afterwards.

He rolls again. "Twelve." He takes Sherlock's cock into his mouth and bobs his head, but he keeps his strokes shallower, lighter, focusing on using his tongue instead of deep-throating him out the gate. Above him, Sherlock lets out a light, reverent, _"Oh."_

His next roll is a four. He rests himself lightly in Sherlock's mouth and only presses in ever so slightly. Sherlock takes the hint and uses his tongue instead, swirling it around the head of John's cock in that clever way that makes John feel lightheaded. It takes all his willpower to stop after only four.

They carry on like that for a while. John recalls that the original poster on the message board had suggested setting a time limit, but it feels good to go off of intuition instead. He listens to his body, and he watches Sherlock's responses, feels the heat in his eyes and the quiver of his muscles and the way his cock gets impossibly harder under John's rigorous attentions. He lets them lose themselves completely in the feedback loop of affirmation, dazed and drunk on lust.

After a time, the pooling heat in John's abdomen seems to swell and spread, and he knows he doesn't want to last much longer. As soon as he finishes the "six" he's completing for Sherlock, he crawls up and positions himself at Sherlock's mouth without rolling the die. 

A look of understanding passes through Sherlock's eyes, but John explains anyway; he recalls the importance of verbalizing instructions during these sessions.

"I'm going to come now, Sherlock. I'm going to use your mouth to get myself off. Snap your fingers if you need me to stop but can't speak. Understood?"

Sherlock nods. John cocks his head. "Yes, John," Sherlock verbalizes.

"Good."

With that, he braces one hand on the headboard, then reaches down with his other hand to cradle Sherlock's head, pressing his cock into his mouth. He begins to thrust with abandon.

And _Jesus,_ it's unlike anything he's ever experienced. The slow burn of the buildup has made every cell in his body feel like it's on fire, and the sight of Sherlock bound and gagging below him is the very stuff his filthiest dreams are made of. He's ruthless in his assault of Sherlock's mouth, but Sherlock is receptive to all of it, completely pliant and submissive beneath him, taking everything John gives him without so much as a whimper of complaint.

He feels his orgasm building. At the very last moment, he uses his leverage against the headboard to push himself up, and he pulls himself clear of Sherlock's mouth. Taking himself in hand, he jerks his cock hard and fast. Before he knows it, he's coming across Sherlock's face and neck, striping him with thick streaks of come that run down his impossibly sharp cheekbones and onto the graceful arc of his clavicle.

Finally, there's nothing left in him and he uses all the strength left in his body to roll off of Sherlock's chest. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and hunches forward, willing his breathing to return to normal. 

"Jesus _Christ."_ They're the only words that will come to him.

He gives himself a moment to calm his breathing, then turns back to Sherlock, who is still lying docile in the center of the bed. Were it not for the raging hard-on between his legs and the come on his face, John would be convinced he was just settling in for a nap; his body is relaxed and his expression placid. Yet upon closer inspection, his pupils are blown wide, and he's watching John with a look of passive interest.

John smiles at him. "That was beautiful, Sherlock. You did so well. Here, let's get you a drink." He picks up the glass of water from the nightstand and angles the straw to Sherlock's parted lips. Sherlock drinks thirstily, only pulling away once half the glass is drained.

"Are you ready for what comes next?"

Sherlock smiles back, the dopey, serene smile that only makes an appearance when they're doing this. It makes John's heart flutter in his chest. "I'm ready."

"Alright." John reaches into the drawer of the nightstand and fetches the lube, then he stands and walks back to the foot of the bed. Sherlock whimpers quietly and tugs gently against his restraints, but he spreads his legs again after only a moment's hesitation. John climbs up onto the bed to kneel between them.

"So for this next round, things are a bit different. I'll still be rolling the die on your behalf, but you'll be the only one rolling." A flicker of confusion crosses Sherlock's face, but he doesn't protest; he simply waits for John to continue.

"Aside from that, the rules are the same. You're not allowed to come until I say so. Are you going to be good for me?"

"Yes, John." Those words spilling from Sherlock's come-streaked lips make John's cock twitch with interest. He'd long since learned that Sherlock could do wonders for one's refractory period... but he pushes the thought away. This next part is for Sherlock, his own arousal will be a mere afterthought.

Without further hesitation, he pours some lube onto his fingers and spreads Sherlock's cheeks. Slowly, he presses his index finger inside. Sherlock grunts and arches slightly, but keeps his legs spread wide, allowing John easy access. He thrusts his finger a few times and feels Sherlock clench, then gradually loosen around him. He pulls out, then presses back in with two, still carefully avoiding Sherlock's prostate.

Above him, Sherlock sucks in a shaky breath. John watches his face for any signs of discomfort, but sees none--his eyes are closed and his forehead is lightly beaded with sweat, but he's otherwise tranquil.

Smiling, John ceases his ministrations but leaves his fingers inside Sherlock, resting softly. With his free hand, he rolls the die.

"Five." He gently presses his fingers against Sherlock's prostate, massaging him just the way he knows turns Sherlock on.

Sherlock gasps, but spreads his legs even wider, allowing John to penetrate him even more deeply on the subsequent four thrusts. He applies just enough pressure on Sherlock's prostate to make him quiver and flinch, but he doesn't recoil in discomfort.

John reaches for the die and rolls again. "Fourteen." Without displacing his fingers, he leans down and bobs his mouth up and down Sherlock's cock. He keeps the suction light, without using his tongue; Sherlock is pretty far gone already, and John wants to play fair.

When he sits back up, he's pleased with what he sees. Sherlock is straining against his restraints, his head thrown back in ecstasy, his body quivering with unreleased tension. He's clearly nearing orgasm, but John wants to push him just a little bit further.

He rolls again. "Lucky you; only a seven. Hold on for me, be good now, I know you're close, but don't let go." With that, he uses his fingers to press against Sherlock's prostate and massages him once, twice, three times...

Sherlock's face is a thing of beauty. His eyes fly open and his mouth forms the same startled "O" he does when he has one of his magnificent revelations. His gorgeous violinist's fingers tighten and whiten beautifully around the leather straps binding him in place, and he tilts his head to the side _just so_ that it exposes that long, pale neck he knows drives John insane. He's strung out and riddled with tension, using ever ounce of willpower to keep himself from coming. 

By the time John reaches _six,_ there's a moment--a split second--when John thinks Sherlock might lose it. Sherlock's cock twitches earnestly and emits an impressive stream of precome--but it stops there. He lets out a strangled moan and bucks against John's fingers, trying to pull away from the stimulation, but John grabs his hip to hold him steady and presses firmly against his prostate for _seven._ Sherlock emits a punched out "Ha!" and tenses again, but he holds on, then collapses back into the pillow gasping with with relief as soon as John lets up on the pressure.

John grins. _God,_ Sherlock is gorgeous like this. He turns and plants a reverent kiss onto the inside of Sherlock's right knee. Sherlock stares down at him, expression glassy, reeling from the high.

"You're doing so well, sweetheart. Being so good for me. I need you to hold on. I'm going to push you further. You can do it, I know you can. Hold on, now."

Sherlock nods blearily. John picks up the die.

"Ten." He wraps his lips around Sherlock's cock and bobs, holding his fingers perfectly still inside him while he does so. He can feel Sherlock's muscles fluttering around him as he stimulates his cock, and above him, he hears a high-pitched whine that sounds more animal than human.

He pulls off and sits up, and rolls again.

They carry on like this for some time--though John has no idea how long. Sherlock is clearly _gone,_ soaring on the natural high, mastering his will not to come exactly as John had commanded. There are moments when Sherlock is so close John can tell he almost loses it, but John works in tandem with him, pulling back ever so slightly to give him the benefit of the doubt. 

He brings Sherlock to the crest two, three, four times--each time backing off just enough for Sherlock to restrain himself. Sherlock has dissolved into a puddle of want and frayed nerves. Sometime around the sixth denied orgasm (or maybe the seventh? John has lost count now as well), Sherlock begins to babble, a broken litany of curse words and pleas and John's name over and over.

John is high as hell as well. Reducing Sherlock to this state is such a rare, beautiful thing, and the endorphins seem to sing in his blood as he lets the scene play out before him. He doesn't even feel turned on, per se--it's a _high,_ a _rush,_ but better than adrenaline, better than morphine, better than anything he's ever felt in his goddamn life. Sherlock is utterly at his command, and he falls apart so fucking _beautifully,_ John almost wants to build a Mind Palace just for this.

But finally,

"Twenty." The number stares up at John from the board, summoning him back to reality. This is how he'd decided the game would end. He can't let himself get carried away.

With a slow, measured movement, he withdraws his fingers. Sherlock whimpers. He thrashes his head back and forth four times, but then stills, the calm spreading over his entire body. His legs and arms go lax, and he blinks blearily down at John through hazy eyes, his face now streaked with tears as well as the drying remnants of John's come. He's utterly, breathtakingly beautiful.

John pours lube into his other hand, and then re-applies some to the fingers that were inside Sherlock. Slowly, he reaches forward and penetrates Sherlock again, with three digits this time, but Sherlock doesn't even react to the increased stretch. He's clearly strung out on a wire, waiting to see what John has in store for him next.

"Alright, Sherlock. You did it. You were so good for me, sweetheart. I'm so proud of you. You're fantastic, amazing, incredible, so goddamn brilliant. I am so fucking lucky to have you." Sherlock gives him a watery smile.

"You can come now. You'll get twenty strokes, but you don't have to wait that long if you don't want to. Just come whenever it feels right for you. I'm going to work you through it. I'm going to make it so good for you, sweetheart. Just let yourself go."

With that, John takes Sherlock's cock in his free hand, and begins pumping him firmly. At the same time, he presses the three fingers of his other hand against Sherlock's prostate, timing it in tandem with his strokes.

Sherlock is silent. At first, John is almost worried--usually by the time he's about to come, Sherlock is either swearing like a sailor or wailing like a banshee--but then he sees a change come over him.

His abs tighten and lift off the bed as though pulled by an invisible string. His back arches at almost an unnatural angle, forcing his hips down towards John, pressing John's fingers deeper and more firmly inside him. His arms yank against his bindings so forcefully that John can make out the very sinew of his muscles, the veins pulsing violet blue against the porcelain of his skin. His eyes are wide and wild, and his head thrashes back and forth with the strain.

And then he's coming in long, powerful jets, streaking his abdomen and chest, some going as far as his neck. John leans forward and presses into his prostate even harder, forcing on a second wave that lasts nearly as long as the first, until Sherlock's cock is twitching pitifully in John's hand, drained of everything he'd been holding in.

Sherlock is silent throughout. When he's finally finished, his body sags back down to the bed, legs falling open, splayed helplessly to his sides. His hands hang loose against the belts around his wrists, the tension in his arms completely dissolved. His head lolls on the pillow. He is utterly, totally wrecked.

John looks into his eyes. Sherlock stares back at him, unmoving.

The silence stretches on.

Finally, Sherlock opens his mouth. When he speaks, his voice is low, his throat dry.

"John, now. Come on. Take me now."

It's all the encouragement John needs. In one move, he pulls his fingers out and uses that lube to quickly slick his own erection. The he leans forward without hesitation and presses inside in one solid, unbroken slide.

He begins to thrust with firm, punctuated precision. He places one hand beside Sherlock's head and grips the headboard with the other, using the leverage to pull himself as deeply inside Sherlock as possible.

Back when they first started doing this, John was always so nervous about taking Sherlock when he was wrung-out and spent, delirious in the wake of his own orgasm. John worried that Sherlock would be too out of it to protest if he was in pain, or too exhausted to push back if he needed to. But he'd quickly learned that Sherlock loved this part as much as he did. True, Sherlock lived for the struggle--that's what always got him off. But the _submission_ was for John--and it was something Sherlock willingly gave for the privilege of watching John come completely, irreversibly undone, his barriers collapsing to rubble all around him.

Tonight, Sherlock is particularly beautifully yielding. His orgasm seems to have put him under completely, and John has total control as he pistons into his pliant body. Sherlock's muscles are so relaxed, John feels as though he's penetrating him more deeply than he ever has before, and the thought spurs him on to thrust harder, faster, taking Sherlock with an animalistic force that John would be hard-pressed to ever admit lay dormant within him.

It's not over as quickly as he thought it would be. Though Sherlock's body feels intoxicatingly hot and tight around him, John knows it's been less than an hour since his last orgasm, and while his refractory period is enviable for a man of his age, he's not a teenager anymore. He's grateful for his stamina in this moment; he allows himself to take in every sensation and let it wash over him: The delicious clench of Sherlock's body around his cock. The smell of arousal and come infusing the air around them. The feeling of sweat rolling down his back, cool in the humid air of the bedroom. And the sight of Sherlock, drenched in sweat and come, submitting so beautifully beneath him, all his for the taking.

Groaning, he pulls out and sits back on his heels. He reaches behind Sherlock's parted knees and presses them back into his chest, folding Sherlock nearly in half, and then thrusts back in without mercy.

Sherlock lets out a slight huff as John penetrates him at this new angle, but he doesn't struggle. He relaxes his hips and lets John push his legs back even further, the position causing his hole to tighten even more around John's cock.

John cries out, pressing all of his weight forward, forcing Sherlock's legs back and open as far as he can. He lets his gaze fall to the place where he's entering Sherlock, and the sight is too erotic to withstand, the pressure around his cock too tight and delicious to resist.

At the last second he pulls out and falls back to his heels and jerks himself ruthlessly. And then he's coming, emptying himself over Sherlock's spent cock and fluttering hole, gritting animalistic cries through clenched teeth. 

Above him, Sherlock is uttering the first sounds John's heard him make since his own orgasm; a faint _"Oh._ Oh." His eyes are wide. He looks almost surprised.

Finally, the waves of pleasure subside. The only sound in the room is their harsh, ragged breathing.

John can't stop staring at Sherlock's debauched form, but he finally tears his eyes away from Sherlock's come-streaked arse to meet his eye.

There's a pause, and the world seems to freeze around them. 

Then Sherlock breaks into a grin. It's not just _any_ grin, it's _the_ grin, the same bloody grin he gave John at the crime scene the night of their first case together, right after John called him an idiot for nearly taking the pill from the cabbie. John feels himself grin back in return, and they both burst into giggles.

Even here, even now, they are still the same. Ever the same. 

John clambers clumsily off the bed and walks over to Sherlock's side to grab his hand and squeeze. Sherlock squeezes back. John repeats the process with the other hand. Sherlock's hands are warm and responsive. Blood flow unimpeded.

Satisfied, he walks to the foot of the bed. Sherlock diligently spreads his legs and allows John to inspect his hole for tearing. Finding none, John returns to his bedside and presses a kiss to Sherlock's lips. Then he picks up the water from the nightstand and offers Sherlock the straw. He takes it without hesitation, and sucks down the remainder of the water. Once he's done, John places the empty glass back on the nightstand.

"Want to stay here for a bit?"

"Yes, John."

"Alright. I'm just going to go rinse off in the shower. Call for me if you need me."

"Yes, John."

This part had taken some getting used to as well. For whatever reason, Sherlock loved to be left tied up and debauched for a span after they'd concluded their sessions. John's never quite understood the appeal, but he knows enough from the websites he'd read that it's considered bad form to ask a partner to explain their kinks without the partner offering that information up, so he takes it at face value. To a degree, it goes against the doctor's caregiving urge within him, but he'd learned to accept that this part was for Sherlock alone; he didn't need to understand it, he just needed to accept it and let Sherlock enjoy and bask in the glow.

He makes his way to the bathroom and flips on the taps in the shower. He's just about to step under the steaming hot jet of water, his aching muscles all but quivering in anticipation, when he hears it.

"John. John! John!"

His heart leaps into his chest. Flinging off the taps, he rushes back into the bedroom.

He knows instantly that something is very wrong. Usually if John leaves him tied up after their session has concluded, Sherlock remains blissfuly, completely relaxed, in whatever hazy state he retreats to when he submits to John. But the moment John lays eyes on Sherlock, it's obvious that this isn't the case tonight. Sherlock is straining against his restraints again, and his eyes are wide with terror. His chest is rising and falling at a rapid rate, and his feet are scrambling for purchase against the mattress. He's clearly in extreme distress.

John's at his bedside in an instant. "Sherlock, it's okay, I'm right here, I'm going to get you out of this, okay?" Sherlock whimpers helplessly as John fumbles with the bindings.

_"Shitshitshit,"_ John murmurs under his breath as he races to undo the belts binding Sherlock's wrists. He mentally berates himself for not having something close by to cut them with. But after a split second, he's able to tamp down on his initial panic. The steady hands of a soldier and surgeon emerge. He needs to stay calm for Sherlock.

The second he frees Sherlock's wrists, Sherlock sits bolt upright, chest heaving, struggling for breath. John quickly assesses his symptoms.

"Are you having chest pain?" Sherlock shakes his head. "Does your body hurt anywhere?" Another head shake. 

"I just...can't...can't breathe..."

It seems to be a panic attack. John slips into doctor mode.

"Here, sit on the edge of the bed like that, good, perfect. Feet on the floor, good." He begins to rub Sherlock's back in soothing circles. "Now I want you to breath in through your nose, for seven counts. Ready? One...two..."

Sherlock complies willingly, though he's still shaking.

Once John reaches seven, he has Sherlock hold his breath for a moment. "Okay, good, now exhale for eleven. I'll count. One...two..."

He repeats this process over and over. After what feels like an eternity, Sherlock stops shaking. His breathing becomes deeper and more regular. John places his fingers gently on Sherlock's pulse point and notes that his heart rate is elevated, but not dangerously so. He seems to be coming down.

Sherlock turns his head to meet John's eyes, and John feels a lump in his throat. God, he looks so _lost;_ what the hell had just happened?

"Here, let's just lie down for a second, okay?" John suggests. Sherlock nods. "Is it alright if I hold you?" Sherlock nods again.

He envelops Sherlock in his arms, curling around him as protectively as possible. Sherlock still seems entirely disorientated.

John remembers reading about this happening on some of the websites he'd reviewed, along with a few brief synopsis of the definition of _aftercare._ But at the time, he'd barely given it a passing glance.

After all, following every single one of their previous sessions when they'd explored power dynamics, Sherlock rarely seemed to want anything at all from John once the session concluded. He preferred to be left alone for a spell (usually the amount of time it took John to shower, or longer if John had left him tied up), then John would deposit him unceremoniously in the bath to clean himself up while John stripped the bed and put on clean sheets. Then Sherlock would stagger into the bedroom and collapse face-first into bed and sleep his usual Post-Case Sleep of the Dead (as John had coined it) for 14 straight hours without interruption. _Aftercare_ seemed pretty far outside the spectrum of Sherlock's post-session needs or interests.

And yet tonight, something had gone terribly off-track. John tries to tamp down the panic rising in his chest as he focuses on soothing Sherlock to the best of his abilities, murmuring faint words of affection to him as he cradles him tightly against his chest. 

Finally, Sherlock uncoils, and after a moment, he pulls himself into a sitting position, blinking blearily. John sits up as well.

"How are you feeling? Better?"

"Better, but not... well."

John reaches forward to cup his cheek and Sherlock leans into the caress, closing his eyes briefly.

John assesses the situation. A part of him thinks he should just fetch the duvet and let them both try and sleep it off, but Sherlock is completely coated in come from his face to his arse, and John can't imagine waking up in that state would be particularly pleasant--if anything, it may trigger feelings of shame or embarrassment (a fact he vaguely recalls reading on one of the websites when explaining the ritual of _cleaning_ during aftercare--one of the few things John can remember about it).

"Do you think you can stand? We should get you cleaned up."

Sherlock reluctantly nods.

"Alright, sweetheart." He never uses that term of endearment except when they're unwinding, but somehow it feels appropriate to keep using it in this moment, when Sherlock is still clearly in an altered headspace. "Come with me."

He coaxes Sherlock to his feet and leads him to the bathroom, then has him sit on the toilet seat while he turns the taps back on. Once the water is warm, he gently guides Sherlock under the spray, then steps in behind him.

Picking up a flannel and Sherlock's favourite sandalwood soap, he begins to gently scrub down Sherlock's body. He starts with his face, wiping away the streaks of come and watching with his heart in his throat as Sherlock's eyelids flutter shut under his ministrations. He moves on to his neck, pale and gorgeous and longer than should be legal, and he doesn't resist the urge to lean in and plant reverent kisses in the wake of the flannel. Then onto his shoulders and chest, porcelain and perfect, and John delights to note the tension ebbing from Sherlock's muscles as he carries on this work. 

His skims the flannel lightly over Sherlock's abdomen, clearing away the residue of their activities, stuttering only slightly at the scar left by the bullet from Mary's gun. John doesn't want to think about that just now.

He wipes down Sherlock's spent cock with quick, perfunctory strokes, and then glides the flannel over his legs for good measure.

"Beautiful. Can you turn around now for me? Use your arms to brace yourself against the wall if you need to."

Sherlock does so, and John repeats the process from the top, using more soap to wash Sherlock's back. Though there's no come there to remove, he notes the way Sherlock's muscles relax in his wake, so he takes his time wiping him down.

"So good for me, sweetheart. Can you spread your legs?" Sherlock complies, and John parts his cheeks and washes quickly between them. The act isn't sexual, not really, but clearing away the evidence of their encounter still fills John with a thrill that zings swiftly down his spine, then flits away as quickly as it at had appeared. Sherlock heaves a ragged sigh.

John turns him slowly back around and kisses his eyelids, which are still shut.

"How are you doing?"

"M'okay."

"Do you want more of this?"

"Yes, John. Feels good. More."

"Alright. I want you to sit down here in the tub with your back to me so that I can wash your hair."

Sherlock drops with an airy grace that in no way reflects his current checked-out mental state. He pulls his knees up to his chest and waits.

John grabs the expensive eucalyptus shampoo that Sherlock so adores, and pours some into his hands. He begins combing it gently through Sherlock's unruly mop of curls.

The moan that rumbles out of Sherlock as John trains his fingers across his scalp is one of sheer relief. John smiles to himself as he watches the tension further drain out of Sherlock, his head lolling on his neck as John massages his scalp and coats his hair, the earthy smell of the shampoo infusing the steamy air surrounding them. 

This is good. This is very good.

Finally, John reaches for the showerhead and brings it down to rinse the shampoo from Sherlock's hair. He combs his fingers through it over and over until the water runs clear.

Last, he sprays himself down, quickly and without fanfare--just enough to get himself decent enough for bed.

He turns the taps off and steps out of the shower, then turns to help Sherlock to his feet. He towels them both down and then guides Sherlock back to the bedroom.

He assesses the state of the sheets. Thankfully, most of the come from their activities had ended up on Sherlock, so they're passably clean. John simply grabs the duvet from the corner and throws it back on the bed, along with the rest of their pillows. He contemplates trying to get Sherlock into his pajamas, but then decides against it; better to quit while they're both ahead.

He leads Sherlock to the bed and helps him settle in, then climbs in behind him, switching off the light on their nightstand. He curls up against Sherlock's back, spooning him like he had been before, noting the difference in the relaxed state of Sherlock's muscles now that they'd shared a shower.

The silence stretches between them. John waits for Sherlock's breathing to turn slow and deep as it always did when he fell into his Sleep of the Dead.

But instead, Sherlock speaks.

"I'm sorry."

John presses himself closer to Sherlock and tightens the arm he has around him, pulling Sherlock back to his chest. He presses a kiss to the nape of Sherlock's neck.

"Don't be. You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I...I don't know what happened. One second I was fine, and the next I was just..."

"It's alright. You're alright now."

"But _why?_ Why did it happen? I'm never... I've never... It's never like that. After we've been together."

John sighs. He doesn't really want to get into this tonight, but the tone of Sherlock's voice reminds him of the tone he had the night he saw the Hound in Baskerville--full of fear, full of doubt. John can't let him drift alone in that.

"Well... as you might have noticed, I've... done some reading. About... the kinds of things we do when we unwind."

"I suspected it was more than your natural proclivity for it."

John smiles. "As I've mentioned before, I haven't ever done this with anyone else. Not like... not like this."

Sherlock presses closer to him, but doesn't reply.

"I've read that sometimes, external circumstances--like the mood you were in before we started--can influence the way you feel during a session, even if we're just doing the same stuff we've done before. And considering what happened during the case tonight, I think you were just in a different place than you normally are at the end of a case."

Sherlock is silent for a moment. Then he draws a slow breath, and responds.

"I thought he was dead. I saw him fall from the scaffolding, right in front of me. I knew that was it. That I failed."

John doesn't know how to respond. He just kisses Sherlock's neck again.

Sherlock continues. "I think after we finished having sex tonight, I just felt like... like I didn't deserve it. Like I hadn't earned that feeling, that happiness. How dare I float away on waves of endorphins, when a child is in the hospital missing a limb because of my oversight."

"Sherlock, that's not--"

"I know, John." Sherlock's voice is curt, with an air of finality to it. "I know objectively that I did all that I could do. But I think my defenses were down more than I realized. So after our session, I was... more vulnerable than normal."

"Okay. That's good to know."

Sherlock lapses into silence.

John plucks up his courage and decides to press the conversation a bit further, mentally noting how much easier it feels to talk like this in the dark, without Sherlock's inquisitive eyes boring into his own. "So... so what we did tonight, it's called _aftercare._ It's where... um, it's where the dominant partner takes care of the submissive parter though a series of ritualised behaviours after a session" (John momentarily falters at the use of the terms "dominant" and "submissive"-- he and Sherlock have never, _ever_ verbally categorized themselves as dominant or submissive in an actual conversation, and he has no idea how Sherlock will react; he almost fears saying the words out loud will somehow break the spell between them).

But Sherlock glosses right over the _dominant_ and _submissive_ bit and instead latches onto, "Ritualised behaviours? It sounds like something a cult would do."

John laughs. "A little, yeah. But really, it can be something as simple as, um, cuddling after we finish" (and God, he feels like a right prat using the word _cuddling_ in a conversation with Sherlock bloody Holmes). "Or cleaning up is a really common one, too-- like what we did together tonight. You just get to relax and let me take care of you in a non-sexual way once the sexual stuff is over."

Sherlock pauses, and John can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Finally, he responds.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I don't... I don't think that's something I would want all the time. Most of the time once we're finished, I just want to be asleep."

John feels faintly disappointed, but he objectively understands where Sherlock is coming from. "I get it. We unwind after cases, and that usually means you haven't been sleeping. Makes sense you'd want to get right to it."

Sherlock hesitates, then adds an addendum: "But... _sometimes_ it might be nice. You're good at taking care of me. Tonight it felt good. God, tonight it felt _really_ good."

John feels a warmth bloom in his chest. "Good. I really liked what we did tonight, too. Most of the time I'm just fine without it, but to be totally honest... sometimes I feel a little bit raw when we finish and then you pass out and I'm just... wandering about the flat left alone with my thoughts."

"Well, with your thoughts being so few and far between, I imagine that must be rather lonely."

"Hey!" John gives Sherlock a good-natured shove, but inwardly, he breathes a sigh of relief. If Sherlock is feeling enough himself to make fun of John's intellect, he's surely feeling considerably better.

John opens his mouth to make a sarcastic remark in return, but instead is overcome with a whopping yawn.

"Oy. I'm spent. We should... we should talk about this more, though. When we're both well-rested and not so soon after a session. When we can be objective, and figure out a way to communicate what... what kind of aftercare we both might need."

Sherlock hums a faint murmur of approval, but John can already feel his breathing deepening as he drifts off to sleep. John presses one more kiss to the nape of his neck, and follows him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized it's been a while since I've written some non-dom/sub sex between these two, so here's a "morning after" one-shot with some slightly more vanilla action. Makes vague references to events from my "In Between" series, but it's not essential to have read it--you'll still get the gist.

John opens his eyes to find Sherlock's jade-green ones boring into his, barely five inches away.

"Jesus!" He jerks back on instinct, startling Sherlock as he does so.

"Sorry! Sorry," Sherlock gasps as they both struggle to return their breathing to normal. John's heart rate is soaring.

"What the hell were you doing, Sherlock?"

"Watching you sleep."

"And how long had you been doing that?"

Sherlock cranes his neck just enough to see the face of the alarm clock over John's shoulder. "About 22 minutes. Give or take."

"I. Um, wow, that's... a long time."

"I didn't want to wake you. Is that... not good? Watching you sleep?"

"No, it's fine, it was just a bit intense to wake up to. I suppose it's an okay thing to do to someone you're in a relationship with, though you may want to be more subtle about it in the future."

"Oh. So it's only okay to watch someone in their sleep if you're in relationship with them?"

"Yes, I think that's probably the healthy boundary to set there. Why?"

"Does that mean I shouldn't have been doing it every night the first time you moved in seven years ago?"

_"What?!"_

For a moment Sherlock's face is frozen in apparent mortification, and John's brain trips over itself trying to force out the image of Sherlock lurking in his room in the middle of the night, all those years ago, long before their relationship had become even _remotely_ intimate. The thought is frankly horrifying.

But then Sherlock's shoulders start to shake and the corners of his mouth tip up into a grin and he's laughing, _laughing,_ as John swats at his shoulder.

"You absolute GIT! I thought you were serious!"

"Oh, John, your face! You believed every word of it!"

"Well, it's not like that would have been the strangest thing you've ever admitted to, Sherlock. When I met you, your concept of personal boundaries was shaky at best."

But Sherlock isn't listening. He's rolling onto his back, still giggling hysterically, and John props himself up on his elbow to admire his face, the way the corners of eyes eyes crinkle in amusement, the way the sunlight spills across his features and makes his eyes look almost golden.

"You're a right wanker, you know that?" he says, wrapping his arm over Sherlock's chest.

"Suppose I am. But you love me."

"God help me, I do."

John leans in and presses a kiss firmly against his lips. He was going to keep it chaste, honestly he was, but the moment he starts to pull away, Sherlock wraps his hand around the back of John's neck, holding him there and deepening the kiss, licking at John's mouth until John grants him entry.

John suddenly becomes pressingly aware of the fact they're both still naked, having collapsed into bed immediately following their shared shower the night before without bothering to put on pajamas. He pulls Sherlock flush against him and revels in the sensation of his skin pressing back against John's, chest to chest, hip to hip, leg to leg. The feeling is intoxicating and somehow surreal to John's still sleep-drunk brain.

Sherlock moans lightly and reaches up to grasp John's shoulders, then rolls him onto his back. In one fluid movement, Sherlock sits up and straddles John, tossing the duvet unceremoniously onto the floor behind them, and then leans back in to devour John's mouth once more.

Christ, this is how every morning should start. John's hands wander lazily over the miles of porcelain skin perched on top of him, his tongue exploring the outline of Sherlock's cupid-bow lips for a few precious moments before Sherlock pulls away and starts to suckle a long, slow chain of languid kisses down the side of John's neck.

Until that point, Sherlock had been raised up on his knees slightly, keeping their most intimate regions separated. But the moment he presses his lips to that deliciously sensitive point at the base of John's left shoulder (right where the scar tissue from his bullet wound is the worst), Sherlock spreads his legs a bit further to let his hardened length brush lightly against John's.

John feels as though the air has been punched out of his lungs. Sherlock continues to suckle along his neck, and while he does so, he glides his cock gently along John's; he keeps the pressure and friction light so there's no urgency to it, just the delicious sensation of hot and delicate skin against hot and delicate skin, the gentlest brush of desire.

It drives John absolutely mad. For someone who never so much as glanced at another man sexually before Sherlock, and who still hesitates to consider himself gay (he prefers "Sherlock-sexual"), the feeling of Sherlock's cock against his never fails to set off fireworks in John's brain.

Sherlock's lips make their way across John's chest and up the other side of his neck, and the next thing John knows, Sherlock's lightly nibbling his earlobe and gyrating his hips ever so slightly. John moves his hands down the expanse of Sherlock's back all the way to his magnificent arse, and grants himself the indulgence of firmly squeezing both pert cheeks, ushering in a wanton moan from Sherlock.

Just then, Sherlock's text alert goes off. They both freeze.

"Shit, that was mummy's alert. Might be about Rosie." Sherlock sits up and grabs his mobile off the nightstand, while John lies prone, dazed and achingly hard, blinking blearily to try and convince his brain to function.

Sherlock takes a quick glance at the screen and then tosses the mobile back on the nightstand. 

"She'll be dropping Rosie off around lunchtime. Just wanted to make sure we were home and the case was complete."

"Perfect, right, right. And Greg's coming by around noon to take our statements."

"Mmmhmm."

They both glance at the clock. 10:26. 

Without exchanging another word, Sherlock _pounces,_ his mouth meeting John's in a frenzy of teeth and tongue. John's hands fly back to their previous position, and he kneads Sherlock's arsecheeks enthusiastically, guiding his hips to slide their cocks against one another with renewed enthusiasm.

A few more minutes, and they're both leaking copious amounts of precome. John brings his palm to his mouth and licks it and reaches between them, taking Sherlock's length in his hand and increasing the friction as Sherlock grinds up into his grip, detaching his mouth from John's to cry out with pleasure. 

John is moaning as well, overwhelmed with the sensation and the intimacy of it all, Sherlock looking every bit the fallen angel above him, hair wild and cheeks flushed as he moves on top of John.

Suddenly, Sherlock stops moving and pulls his cock out of John's grip. John is about to protest, but Sherlock just reaches for the nightstand, where the lube is still out from the night before. John watches with rapt attention as Sherlock sits back on his heels and coats two of his fingers with lube. Unceremoniously, he plants his clean hand next to John's head and lifts himself onto his knees, then reaches behind himself with his lube-coated fingers. His eyes close, and he huffs out a gentle sigh as he penetrates himself.

"Oh, Sherlock." John's voice sounds laced with awe, even to his own ears.

Sherlock opens his eyes and smiles down at John, then lowers his hips to align their cocks and starts thrusting gently once more, keeping the friction light but consistent as he preps himself.

John returns his hands to Sherlock's arsecheeks and pulls them apart, and he watches Sherlock's face intently as he thrusts his fingers more deeply inside himself. The angle isn't right for John to see Sherlock's fingers as they work, but the expression on his face is enough to tell John exactly what's happening. He leans up to meet Sherlock for another kiss.

Their kisses remain light and almost chaste this time. John lets his hands wander from Sherlock's arse to his back, lightly tracing gentle circles that make Sherlock shiver and moan, the sensation of John's fingers on the scar tissue hatched across his back sending jolts of pleasure up and down his spine. After a spell, Sherlock breaks the kiss and sits up again, withdrawing his fingers and adding more lube, to three digits this time. He reaches back again, John watching with rapt attention as Sherlock presses his fingers into himself, going slowly to adjust to the stretch. 

John runs his hands reverently up and down Sherlock's sides as he does so, allowing himself to bask in the beautiful expressiveness of Sherlock's face. His brow is lightly knitted and his lips are open, swollen from their kisses and gentle bites. His eyes remain fixed on John's as he continues to prep himself, and John feels like an unbidden voyeur, watching Sherlock commit this most intimate of acts.

After a few minutes, Sherlock heaves a wavering sigh, then reaches for the lube once more. This time, he uses his fingers to quickly coat John's cock, then raises himself to just the right angle, and John feels the tip of himself slip inside. Sherlock's hand holds John steady as he lowers himself, slowly, inch by inch, until he's fully seated. John can do nothing but watch, utterly transfixed. The moment his arsecheeks connect with John's thighs, Sherlock throws his head back and lets out a sigh that sounds almost like relief.

They stay like that for a moment, Sherlock adjusting to the stretch and John prone below him, letting Sherlock set the pace. Finally, Sherlock meets John's eyes, and John smiles up at him.

"God, Sherlock. You feel amazing."

"Mmmm. So do you, John." He raises himself up a few inches and then lowers himself once more. _"Oh._ Oh, so do you." 

Sherlock begins to move, but slowly, _agonizingly_ slowly, and it takes every ounce of John's willpower not to thrust up into the tight heat enveloping him. But he remains passive with his hands resting lightly on Sherlock's hips, watching Sherlock take his pleasure, and it's an entirely different type of satisfaction than he experiences when he's dominating Sherlock like he did last night. This is gentle, patient, worshipful... loving.

Sherlock's eyes are locked on John as he moves, gyrating his body in slow, oscillating waves that cause every muscle to ripple beneath his flawless ivory skin. 

Occasionally John has found himself irritated with Sherlock's alarmingly perfect physique; the man refuses to eat what could even be remotely considered a well-balanced diet, he doesn't seem to have any type of regular exercise routine, and yet he manages to look like a marble-carved Adonis every time he disrobes. John, meanwhile, spends hours devoted to healthy-cooking Pinterest boards and has a gym routine more challenging than men ten years his junior, and is still barely able to fight off the middle-age paunch. Yet in this moment, he's hard-pressed to complain.

Above him, Sherlock opens his mouth and utters a high, breathy sigh, changing up the angle slightly so that John's hardness is brushing lightly against his prostate. Sherlock's cock twitches in response, and a bead of precome forms at the head.

John lets his hands meander from Sherlock's hips to his chest, then begins to slowly circle Sherlock's nipples with the pads of his thumbs, brushing lightly against his areolas. Sherlock's nipples are highly sensitive, and John loves watching the expression of earnest excitement flicker across Sherlock's face as they tighten into peaked buds. Sherlock lets out a rumbling moan.

They carry on like that for a while, Sherlock lightly stimulating his prostate with John's cock and John slowly teasing around his nipples, but never providing the satisfying friction that Sherlock surely desires. Sherlock's cock has begun to leak in earnest, and John lets out an unsteady sigh when he feels the first drop of precome land on his stomach. Unable to wait any longer, he takes Sherlock's nipples between his thumb and forefinger and squeezes.

Sherlock lets out a garbled, choked-off moan, then lightning-fast, he's reaching for the lube again and squeezing some into his own palm. Without any further hesitation, he takes his own cock in hand and begins to stroke.

John takes the hint, He briefly withdraws his fingers just long enough to wet them and then resumes his ministrations on Sherlock's nipples, doubling down on his efforts as he gently twists and plucks them. Sherlock leans into the sensation, all but thrusting his chest into John's hands and pulling at his own cock in long, sure strokes.

They're both beyond coherent vocalization, but Sherlock is emitting nearly constant gasps and short cries, a sure sign that he's getting close. For his part, John doesn't trust himself to form a sentence--even dirty talk is outside his lexicon at the moment-- but he manages a series of _"Oh"s_ that he's fairly sure are getting his point across.

All too soon, it comes to a head; Sherlock raises himself so far off of John's cock that he nearly slips out, then drops himself down with single-minded focus. He repeats the action over and over again, hand flying over his own cock so quickly it's nearly a blur, then he throws his head back and lets out a strangled shout as he comes all over John's chest and abdomen. The moment he finishes, he collapses forward, forearms bracketing John's head, his face tucked into John's neck, sucking in sharp, jagged breaths.

John holds him while he quakes in the aftermath, running his hands lightly up and down his back, gentling him, finally turning his head to press a kiss to Sherlock's sweat-soaked temple.

Eventually Sherlock seems to come back to himself, raising his head until he can meet John's lips. They kiss like that for a while, Sherlock shivering slightly as he allows John to plunder his mouth. He pulls away after a few minutes, staring down at John but still close enough that their breath intermingles, his eyes wide and searching as they lock into John's.

And God, he looks like something straight out of one of John's most pornographic fantasies; his lips are swollen, his eyes are bright, the blush that had been running along his high cheekbones has spread down his face and onto his ethereal neck, and his hair catches the sunlight streaming in through the window, making him look for all the world like he's illuminated with a halo. 

John grins up at him. Sherlock offers a shy smile in return.

Needing no further encouragement, John moves to adjust their positioning slightly. He's still inside Sherlock, but now he bends his legs and plants his feet on the mattress, giving himself leverage to thrust up into him. Taking the hint, Sherlock props himself up on one arm, the other reaching forward to grab the headboard, providing resistance to John's thrusts. John wraps his arms under Sherlock's to grasp his shoulders, giving himself the control to hold Sherlock in place as John penetrates him in undulating strokes.

He moves slowly in and out of Sherlock, taking care not to overstimulate him. Sherlock is open and relaxed, and his eyes fall shut as John moves inside of him. John is unable to resist lifting his head to capture Sherlock's lips against his yet again. 

They move like that for a time, but eventually Sherlock pulls away to gaze down at John. The arm he has against the headboard begins to flex in time with John's thrusts, pushing him further back onto John's cock, allowing John to penetrate him deeper and deeper.

"I love you." The first time Sherlock says it, it's so faint it could almost have been confused for a trick of the ear. But then he repeats it, louder this time, "I love you. I love you. God, John, I love you." The phrase begins to fall from his lips over and over like a benediction, his eyes wide as if in revelation.

John's throat constricts, and his arousal becomes an almost an afterthought. For one horrifying second he thinks he might cry, but he fights back the urge. Crying would confuse Sherlock, and he's being so open in this moment, so preciously vulnerable and raw.

It's not the first time they've said "I love you." No, the first time had been a few months ago, soon after John had moved back in and they'd set up the nursery for Rosie upstairs and finally become more or less what everyone had generally assumed they were from the start. They'd said it over a pan of burnt risotto late on an unassuming Tuesday night. John can still taste the relief he'd felt in that moment; it was though the tangle of emotions that had lain snarled in his chest for seven years (through all of it--Sherlock's death, his return, John's relationship with Mary, and ultimately the loss of her) had finally come undone, and he was utterly, completely free. For the first time in seven years, there was nothing left unsaid.

But even after they'd said it the first time, they didn't make a habit of it. John was certainly more open with it than Sherlock--occasionally dropping it in as kissed Sherlock and Rosie goodbye on his way out the door to the surgery, or murmuring it into Sherlock's shoulder as he hugged him from behind while Sherlock hunched over his microscope in the kitchen-- but it wasn't necessarily a regular thing. 

Sherlock said it more seldom still, uttering the words under only the most bizarre circumstances and without any rhyme or reason that John had yet deduced (once in the cab on the way to a triple-murder crime scene, once over a dessert coarse at Angelo's after an hour and a half of playing footsie under the table, once in the middle of one of his Dark Moods when he suddenly took a pause from assaulting his violin's strings and whirled about to face John and spat the words at him like a curse--again, John couldn't detect a pattern to any of it).

But here, this morning, the words are tumbling from Sherlock's lips effortlessly as he gazes down at John with a look that could only be categorized as _adoration._

John moans softly below him and thrusts up harder and with renewed enthusiasm. Sherlock clenches the headboard and meets him thrust for thrust, but his rhythm never falters as he continues to repeat the phrase over and over again, as if it's the only thing keeping him tethered to that moment.

It's all too much; John can't control himself any longer. He tightens his grasp on Sherlock and locks him into place, then pistons up relentlessly into him, his pelvis lifting off the bed entirely, his feet scrambling for a better angle. He finally gets the right leverage and drives forward, vaguely aware that he's gasping and crying out frantically, losing control completely. He wants to close his eyes, wants to lose himself in pleasure, but Sherlock's eyes are still locked on his as he repeats over and over, "I love you. I love you."

John comes. It's the kind of orgasm that radiates through his entire body, and he desperately tries to claw Sherlock closer and closer to him as he empties himself inside him. Sherlock's eyes go wide as he feels John's release, and his frantic litany devolves into John's name as he takes all John can give him.

Finally, John's orgasm recedes. Their eyes are still locked, and John can't help but notice that Sherlock's seem as wet as his own. He pulls out and quickly tips Sherlock over so that they're lying side by side, curled into one another, noses practically touching, never breaking their gaze.

They stay like that for a while. It's sometimes like this, after sex with Sherlock; they're both completely thunderstruck by the experience, and it takes them a while to come back down to reality. John's never felt this way post-sex with anyone but Sherlock; it's utterly transcendent.

Sherlock blinks. There are beads of moisture on his eyelashes. John leans in and kisses them away. Then he brushes a kiss against Sherlock's lips as well. Sherlock half-heartedly returns the kiss, but instead they pause halfway, breathing each other in, two halves of a whole, perfectly in tandem. John pulls Sherlock close so that the lengths of their bodies are pressed together. When John feels like he can catch his breath again, he murmurs, "I love you, too."

They doze for a bit (is it really dozing? John feels more like he's slipping in and out of reality), but the next time he looks at the clock, it's well after 11.

"Wake up, sleepyhead."

"Mmmrph." Sherlock scrunches his eyes shut and wrinkles his nose. 

"Come on, we have to get up. Your mum will be by with Rosie soon."

"Tell her I'm dead. Tell her you killed me."

"You know, as plausible as I think she'd find that and as understanding as I'm sure she'd be, I think it's for the best that you at least show your face and thank her for taking care of our daughter."

"And what's in it for me?"

"Well, if you play your cards right, I was thinking we could get dumplings afterwards."

Sherlock opens one eye.

"Aaaaah, that's the magic word, isn't it? I knew you'd want some. Come on. We need to get showered, but first, let me check you over."

Sherlock sighs. John insists on checking Sherlock for tearing time they have penetrative intercourse. As a doctor, he knows the importance of making sure everything's in order, but on a somewhat more personal level.... well, he's never been particularly good at hiding how he feels about seeing evidence of his release in that most intimate of places. And he's fairly certain Sherlock knows it.

Sherlock props himself up on is hands and knees accommodatingly, and John gently spreads his cheeks. John looks him over thoroughly; no signs of tearing, and there's just a faint trace of come around his entrance that makes John's insides feel wobbly.

"You know," says Sherlock, voice level and disinterested, as though he's discussing the weather. "I was thinking we could get me a plug." With that, he pulls away from John's grasp and flits out of bed to grab his dressing gown off the peg by the door. 

John's brain short-circuits.

"I... you... what?"

"An anal plug, John, do keep up. It would keep your come inside me in between rounds."

"I... Jesus, I know what an anal plug is, Sherlock, I just--"

"Not interested?"

"No, God, very interested, very interested, Jesus Christ, I didn't know if you'd be into... oh my God, I think my brain is broken."

"Well, your brain is a very simple machine, John, I'm sure you can reboot and get it back online by the time Mummy arrives in 15 minutes. And after that, I believe I was promised dumplings."

With that, he disappears into the bathroom, and John hears the water pipes creek to life. Shaking his head, John stands up to follow him, wondering how the hell a bastard like him ever got so lucky.

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason I felt sad after finishing this, so I'm toying with the idea of a porny little morning-after one-shot. Therefore categorizing this as a two-parter.


End file.
